


Fierce as a Storm

by Namacub95



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aegon's Conquest, Book: Fire and Blood, F/M, House Baratheon, POV Female Character, Pre-Canon, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 12:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18851071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Namacub95/pseuds/Namacub95
Summary: Argella Durrandon will not yield. She will not bow to foreign invaders marching towards Storms End. Her father is dead and she is the last of House Durrandon, the Storm Queen.Based on the story fromFire and Blood





	Fierce as a Storm

They were coming, this Argella knew.

Her father had ridden out only a few days before with all the knights sworn to their house in preparation to make the Targaryens and their allies pay in blood for every inch of the Stormlands they took. He was a brave man, her father, brave and stubborn and she loved him so. Argella believed that he would see off the dragonlords and their bastard commander who had the nerve to ask for her own hand in marriage. Her father’s defiance of them had started this whole bloody affair and he would smash them; this she was sure of. 

“Hold my castle for me and I will return with a dragon’s head for you, my daughter.” Her father had laughed, pressing a kiss to her ebony hair. She was his only heir; her brothers had all died in the cradle and so she was determined to be everything her father could want save for her lack of cock.

“May the Warrior give you strength enough to slay a dragon.” She returned. Her father’s laugh was a great booming thing, like the storms they claimed to be the rulers of. Argella hoped that her father would win this battle so she could hear his laugh again. The land, the bannermen, all that was meaningless if she didn’t get her father back.

The last time she had seen him, she had been standing atop the curtain wall of their great castle, her arm raised and waving. The army was a sea of shining plate and mail, everywhere the golden banner with the crowned stag flying proudly. Ours is the Fury. The Targaryens would soon know that. Her father had looked back one last time, his own gauntleted hand raised in farewell to her, his once black beard which had now turned white streaming in the rising wind. 

He had died in battle not long afterwards and now the Targaryens were coming for Storms End.

Everywhere in the castle, she could hear the men whispering. Argella didn’t have to guess what was behind those frantic murmurs and side glances at her whenever she walked into the main hall to dine. She knew because it was what she was thinking of too, it was hard to put the idea and the image from her mind’s eye. The other king, foul Harran may the Stranger take him to the deepest of the seven hells, had been burned alive inside his own castle with all his men, sons, daughters, grandsons, and even the castle dogs when he had defied Aegon the Dragon. They had said that the men who had guarded the walls with spears and crossbow hadn’t even seen the beast that had brought their doom until the great shadowy creature was already in their midst, consuming all around with its flames. Towers of stone had melted as if they had been made of mere candle wax until the great monstrosity of a castle was nothing but ash and ruin by the time the day had broken. That was the fate that would soon be facing Storms End as well even though her curtain wall was twice as thick as Harran’s ugly castle.

Argella didn’t want to die. She didn’t want the women and children, who had streamed here when news of the Dragon’s landing had first been heard, to die either. There were not nearly enough men left to mount anything more than a token defence, all the true knights and fighting men had gone with her father and either died or surrendered when it was clear the day was lost. She would be on her own. 

Ours is the Fury. Her father had said those words to her so often that they were imprinted on her heart like a blacksmith had branded them there. Her father had died to keep them and the Stormlands free from the reign of Valyrians. What daughter would she be to him if she threw away his sacrifice, bent the knee, and prayed for some degree of mercy from the queen who flew on the beast said to be named Maraxes? A poor one, she thought, a traitor of a daughter. Her father would not be forgotten.

“I am Argella Durrandon, first of my name, Storm Queen! Long may I reign!” her voice carried over the long hall to all assembled before her. Of course, they cried back with “long may she reign”, thumping their hands against tables and feet against the floor. She was not blind to see the furtive glances that some of the men gave each other at her bold claim and taking of her father’s crown. She knew that there would be many who would rather yield but she would not. She would rage like the storm which flowed through her veins from King Durran Godsgrief and his mystical queen.

If the Targaryens wanted fire and blood, they would find another raging storm.

\----------------------------

The first thing that alerts her to the fact that the Targaryen queen has arrived is the sound of shouts and screams in her courtyard. Argella is running quickly, the golden hem of her black gown swishing around her slippered feet as she rushes to see a great silver beast and a silver-haired woman astride it. It had landed right in the central courtyard of Storms End as if it was simply a horse that had ridden through the gates and not a dragon. The dragon is both beautiful and terrifying in equal measure and it takes all the steel that Argella possesses not to flee back into the central keep and bar the doors as if that would do any good at keeping it and its rider out.

The queen, Rhaenys she had been told, swings down from her mount as if the castle is her’s already. Like her dragon, she is equally beautiful and terrifying with her silver hair and those queer purple eyes that mark her as pure Valyrian. She thinks that had her brother Aegon accepted her father’s offer of her hand, that Argella would have liked to have such a beautiful husband assuming that Aegon and his sister were identical in their looks. Alas, that was a future that would never be and instead she was their enemy until death.

“I come in peace.” Rhaenys greets her, no bow, no title, not even her name “Your father, Argilac is dead, his host has been smashed and those who remain have bent the knee to my brother. Our host is outside your walls as we speak, and we can resolve this peacefully now should you too bend the knee. I can swear that your people will be unharmed, your castle will remain unsacked, and you may have all the lands your house currently claims and your title as Lady of Storms End.”

It is a good offer. Any leader would be quick to grab such leniency with both hands and swear and swear. They would swear that the sky was red if it meant that their people, lands, and themselves would be spared the sword. She would still rule; she would still have her home but not the crown that her father had been so proud to wear and had defended since he was but a green boy and had cost him everything. 

“You may win my castle, but you will win only blood, bones, and ash.” She declared, the woman was smaller than her so it was easy to draw herself to her full height and meet her purple eyes with her own bright blue “Each man in here is worth a hundred out there and they will fight to the last to keep the Stormlands free. We will never surrender. Tell that to your brother and the bastard who presumed to have my hand.”

If she was furious, Rhaenys didn’t show it. She instead broke her gaze to let her eyes roam around the courtyard where men with spears stood quaking and women were trying to shield their children behind their skirts. Finally, when she had finished scrutinising the people who would be sheltering in her keep and defending its walls from the Targaryen army, she returned to Argella.

“You are making a grave mistake, Argella Durrandon. I hope you do not live to regret it.”

\----------------------------

Traitors. Traitors the lot of them and they would all be damned to the seven hells if Argella had her say.

They had stormed into her bedroom, the men of the garrison she had tasked with keeping watch from the curtain wall, and they had taken her kicking and screaming the whole way down to the guard house. She expected that she would be raped, it was known that men with no honour as these men had proved to be were more than capable of such heinous acts in the sight of the gods and they did indeed strip her of her nightshift but did not touch her any more than to wrap her naked body in chains from her neck to her ankles. Then they threw her over a horse like a dead deer her father would bring back from a hunt and rode her out of the castle gates towards the faint torchlight coming from the Targaryen camp.

She made sure that she didn’t go quietly. She cursed and spat at them like a madwoman with every step the horse took, and they only laughed at her. This just did more to stoke the rage growing in her. If she got free, if she lived, she would make sure all of them were hung from the curtain wall but not before she had pulled their traitorous hearts out first.

“A gift for milord Baratheon!” called one of them when they had reached the first guards. She couldn’t see their faces and didn’t want to, but she knew that their eyes would probably grow wide when they realised just who the naked, chained woman was. Argella Durrandon, Storm Queen. Clearly, they were believed because they were quickly ushered through and then she was pulled roughly from the horse and thrown on the ground with all the grace of a sack of potatoes thrown on the kitchen floor.

But even now, even here, Argella would not show submission. She would die as her father did, cursing the Targaryens to her last breath. 

She had expected Orys Baratheon to look as the other Targaryens did for it was said he was Aegon’s bastard brother. In this she found herself shocked to see a man with hair as black as her own, but his eyes were a strange mix of blue and Valyrian purple, so dark they almost appeared black. He was also younger than she had imagined, and handsomer, she had expected someone of base blood to be an ugly creature not worth the trouble of acknowledging but Baratheon was not that.

“We submit Storms End and bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen. Please, accept our surrender and the former lady of our castle, Argella Durrandon, as proof of our loyalty.”

Saving their own skins at the price of their honour. Argella hoped that it was worth it when the dragonlords decided to yoke them like oxen to a plough. They would come to long for the days when they had been free men of the Stormlands and oathbound to none but House Durrandon. She held her head high, despite the shame of her nakedness and captivity. Baratheon would not see her weep, or cower, or beg. Queens do not do such things. If he was to kill her then he would not hear any pleas for mercy or the wailing of a frightened woman. Her father had taught her to be stronger than that. 

What she didn’t expect was him to raise her up from where she had been thrown down, gentle like she was dear kin to him and not an avowed enemy. She had heard that the Valyrians of old were merciless to those who stood against them, dared to defy them and their dragons, if Orys was a Valyrian then he was a strange one indeed. He took the cloak he had thrown over his own nightclothes and wrapped it around her shoulders, shielding her naked body from the growing crowd of curious onlookers. She thought she spied a shock of silver hair amongst them, but she found herself being led away before she could get a good look.

“I thank you for your actions. Return to your castle and we will come in the morning. Your service to House Targaryen will be rewarded, I am sure.”

Baratheon’s hand on the small of her back pushed her gently forwards into the tent that was clearly his, judging by its largeness and elaborate dragon hangings. He said not a word but instead guided her forward as if she was a skittish horse ready to bolt at the slightest wrong move, an unlikely thing given her chains and the many men of the Targaryen camp who would catch her before she had taken two steps away from him. As soon as she was over the threshold, he closed the flap and barred any from seeing what would happen next.

“I will not--” she began,

“Hush.” He cut her off, raising his hand and she half expected him to smack her across the face for daring to speak. 

Instead he surprised her again by lifting the cloak he had covered her with and then heavy chain around her shoulders, slowly unwinding it. She couldn’t help the flush that came to her cheeks and she resolutely stared at the ground as he continued to unwind the chains that her men had bound her in. Alone with her enemy, she felt now more conscious of her nakedness than when she had been in front of an entire camp. She could at least put on the façade of pride and defiance but now she was alone. 

Finally, the last of the chains dropped with a rattle to the grass beneath her feet and she instantly raised her arms to cover her breasts. Thankfully, since he seemed in a merciful mood and gave her back the cloak he had originally wrapped her in. She was quick to snatch it from his hands and cover herself as modestly as she could, no doubt Baratheon was laughing at her even if his expression remained sober. 

“Would you take some wine, my lady?”

 _Queen_ , she thought in her head, but she nodded “Please. It…has been a trying night.”

He laughed at that and she couldn’t help the small lift in the corner of her own mouth. It was definitely an understatement if she had ever heard one. How else could she described being striped and then delivered to her enemies? 

Not only did Baratheon provide her with wine, mulled and warm to stave off the chill of the night air, but he also managed to procure some bread and cheese from somewhere as well. It was not a grand meal but Argella could not afford to be picky at this time either so she accepted it with grace. After all, better wined and dined in a commander’s tent than thrown in a cell to await an execution. Orys Baratheon was definitely not the man she had imagined him to be and she almost felt sorry for the harsh judgements she had made of him in her head despite never having met the man. Now she had, she was not so proud that she couldn’t admit when she had been wrong. 

“My father…” she began and she noticed immediately the stiffening of the man opposite her “Tell me, did he at least die with honour?”

To his credit, Baratheon didn’t look away from her and mumble some meaningless nothing about the fortunes of war. He was at least a man enough to look her in the eye as he recounted her father’s last stand. Her father, a brave fool until the end, had fought Baratheon in single combat and died as he had stated he wanted to die: sword in hand and a curse on his lips. She was proud of him, he did not die begging for mercy, or from a stab in the back he never saw coming, or worse yet by dragon flame as some of his men had done. 

“He died with honour.” Orys concluded “A brave man, a worthy foe.”

“Am I to die as well, then?” she asked bluntly. As well as he had treated her, she was under no illusions that this would end well for her. The Targaryens had exterminated one family for defiance, what was another dead line? House Durrandon would die with her anyways if Aegon and his sisters didn’t kill her outright, a woman cannot continue a line even if her blood is royal and she is the only heir. Better that the Targaryens allowed her to meet her father again in whatever came next.

“My lady,” he began, suddenly taking her hands in his own “I can’t promise that you will be spared if you don’t bend the knee. Aegon is a good man, he will treat you kindly if you submit, I know him. Your father would not want you to throw away your life, what father would? Please, submit, submit and live. I do not know what will happen to your house, but I can at least promise that you will live, and House Durrandon will not be extinguished.”

His passionate pleading was not what Argella had expected. She had expected him to confirm her worst fear and not instead plead. This man, this strange man, had her father met him then perhaps he would not have been so hasty as to reject him so furiously. He was no dragonlord, but he clearly seemed to care for his enemies in a way she found utterly strange yet oddly endearing. 

“I submit, and I will live?” she confirmed.

“Yes, I swear.”

\----------------------------

The sept bells were pealing in from Storms End, such a joyous sound for a grand occasion. After all, today would be the day when House Baratheon took its place in Storms End as lords of the Stormlands. The smallfolk surrounding the castle were clearly anticipating a grand show as they had turned out in their hundreds to see their new liege lord claiming the castle of their old one. 

What they hadn’t expected to see was Argella riding side-by-side with Orys Baratheon in a gown of gold. That wasn’t the only gold she wore, around her finger was a band of gold telling the whole world that she was no longer Argella Durrandon but instead had been remade as Argella Baratheon, first Lady of Storms End.

“I have a surprise for you, my dear.” Orys told her as they rode under the gate and through the curtain wall she knew so well.

“Oh, husband? Will I like this surprise or shall I have you evicted from the castle as soon as you have arrived?” she replied in jest. Orys’ laugh reminded her of her fathers, a great booming thing that filled her with joy. How long ago it seemed, that tent in the field outside the castle when she had been his prisoner. Now she was his wife and found herself happy for it.

Orys raised his hand and gestured for the banners to be unfurled and Argella gasped aloud. They were not new banners, they were the old banners that had always hung from the keep, washed so they shone as good as new. Gold with a great crowned stag in black. House Durrandon’s old standards.

“House Baratheon has no sigils, no mottos, no greatness to claim.” He told her quietly as she gazed in amazement “So, I thought to myself, who do I know who does have all those things and would be kind enough to share them with me? Why, but my lovely wife!”

“I never thought I’d see them again…” Argella breathed

“Your father died to defend you and his home. A fitting honour that his sacrifice will always be remembered then and House Durrandon will never truly die.”

Argella could have kissed him there and then if there weren’t so many people watching them. Her husband, her kind-hearted husband, had made sure that Durran’s legacy would live on long after she took her last breath. Mayhaps her father would not be so angry as she had first supposed he would have been, after all, he had not deigned to meet Orys Baratheon and find out what kind of man he really was.

**Author's Note:**

> After reading the chapters on Aegon's Conquest, I was inspired by Argella and her defiance after her father's death. She seemed like a badass and you could clearly see where Robert, Renly, Stannis, and all the later Baratheon's got their fire from.


End file.
